Salvation
by WriteOnForever
Summary: It had been a week. He pretended it didn't happen. At least, he tried. But it was hard... Sequel/ companion to Mercy.


**HIGH T**__for lots of darkness.

Disclaimer: There is no way anyone would let me write for a children's show.

Salvation

It had been a week.

An entire week since they'd raped Cameron. Since he'd let them.

He pretended it didn't happen. At least, he tried. But it was hard, so _damn_ hard, because he saw those seven men every day. Because the other inmates would send him these looks, mixtures of fear and disgust and utter disbelief. Because he couldn't go one day without it replaying in his mind.

He hated this feeling, this overwhelming, all-consuming _guilt_. It was an emotion he had never before experienced, and it weighed upon him heavily, crushing him, suffocating him.

There was relief from such sensation, and this came from immersing himself in his capo persona. It was strange, how his position was now nothing more than a façade, a mask. But it was, it _had _to be, because, though he no longer deserved it, losing it meant everything had been for nothing. So he played the role. To anyone else, it would appear that he was completely unaffected, that he couldn't care one way or the other. That's what they expected, after all.

The respites, however, were always too short, and once he was away from the others, it was like coming off from a high as reality attacked him. He drowned in the memories, the whimpers and the grunts and the cold, heartless laughter.

At the moment, he was trapped in That Night, bits and pieces repeating themselves over and over again. He'd just gotten back from a meeting with Strange, and he'd sunk so far in his capo guise that he'd almost believed it. Now, now he was paying the price as he returned to his cell, haunted by the truth, by what had happened, by what he'd _let _happen—

And suddenly the past was replaced by the present as his body was slammed into the wall. Collecting himself, he sneered at the perpetrator. Gates. A young guard, early thirties. Cameron's guard. The one who was gentler than Icicle ever could be, the one who took it upon himself to be permanently stationed outside the teen's cell.

"You're sick," the guard spat. "You're real frickin' sick."

Jerking away, Icicle snarled, "What?"

Ignoring the question, Gates continued, "I mean, letting them rape him, that was bad enough. But _telling _them to do it, as some sort of punishment? That's just—"

"What the Hell are you talking about?" he demanded, throat going painfully dry.

Gates just stared at him, as though questioning whether or not to believe his confusion. Finally, he quietly explained, "Ojo and Wilcox are still raping him. Have been for the past week."

Icicle suddenly felt light-headed, and he noticed his hands were shaking. It took him a moment to process this, and he realized that he was experiencing _fear_. Another new emotion, perhaps even worse than guilt. He couldn't handle this, not now, so he converted it something he knew far better: anger.

"They've been raping him for a _week_ and you haven't stopped them?"

"Don't you dare blame this on me!" the guard retorted, but Icicle heard the slight break in his voice. "The first night, I was called away from his cell. _Wilcox_ had arranged for my performance assessment. When I got back, they'd…they'd already raped him. When I asked him what happened, he said that they'd been sent by _you_ to punish him. That they were going to keep doing it."

"And you just accepted that?"

"I had no choice. He said that if anyone tried to stop them, they'd bring the others the next time." There was a pause. "And he was scared to death of pissing you off even more."

Swallowing hard, Icicle asked, "Then why are you telling me now?"

Gates couldn't meet his eyes. "It's gotten worse."

And he didn't know what that meant, couldn't even fathom how this situation could get any worse, so he just nodded and began walking to his son's cell. And it was only after Gates allowed him inside did he understand.

Cameron was lying on his stomach on the bottom bunk, arms spread in front of him. The orange jumpsuit only covered him from the waist down, and the white undershirt had been pulled up, hanging around his shoulders, so that his entire back was exposed.

Bite marks, large and angry, encrusted with dried blood, littered his skin, accompanied by criss-crossing welts.

"My God."

Cameron whipped his head toward the sound of his father's voice, and his eyes widened as he scrunched himself into a ball. "Dad—"

"I didn't tell them to do this." He needed his son to know that. Because he was a lot of things, but he wasn't enough of a monster to have someone rape his child. "I would never tell them to do this to you."

There was no answer. But he wasn't blind, and he saw the _doubt_ in his son's icy blue eyes. And it hurt like Hell that Cameron didn't believe him, but he didn't blame his son; he couldn't. Because he'd allowed them to rape him, allowed them to break him because he cared so damn much about his stupid title. So it was no wonder that his son didn't believe him. But that didn't stop the aching pain.

"Please, Cam," he whispered, taking a step closer, wondering when he'd last said _please_, last called him _Cam_, "I didn't tell them to do this. I had no idea. Please, I swear to God I didn't know."

Getting into a sitting position, Cam asked, "Promise?"

Hesitantly taking a seat next to him, he replied, "Promise."

Speaking to the floor, the teen explained, "The first night, I fought them; I really, really tried. But Wilcox used the stupid collar on me and Ojo pinned me down and they kept saying that this was punishment, that you were ordering them to do this. And they said that if I tried to tell anyone, the others…the others would get involved. And I was scared because it hurt and I couldn't go through it all again so I kept quiet and told Gates to stay quiet. But then…then it got really bad, and it hurt so bad and I begged them to stop, begged them to let me talk to you, but they wouldn't and they kept saying they'd make the punishment even worse and couldn't take that and I'm sorry, Dad, I'm—"

Icicle, who couldn't believe that Cam was apologizing to _him_, did the only thing that seemed right in that situation, something he'd never done before in his life: he hugged his son.

At first, Cam was stiff, and Icicle began questioning himself, but then he went limp in his arms, accepting the embrace, and cried, sputtering over and over and _over_, "Everything hurts, Dad."

And Icicle—no, damn it—_Joar_ just held him, ignoring his own discomfort because he needed to be a dad, a real one. And he only released his grip after Cam's sobs had turned to sniffling hiccups and he shifted a bit in his arms.

Wiping the stray tears from Cam's face, he murmured, "I'm going to make them stop, okay?"

The seventeen-year-old nodded.

"You…you should go to the Infirmary."

"But—"

"You _need_ to go." He caught the edge in his words. "You need medical attention. Okay?"

Nodding again, Cam began dressing himself. Walking to Gates, respectfully standing outside, Joar muttered, "Take Cam to the infirmary."

"I will."

"Is there any place in this prison that doesn't have cameras?"

"Psychiatrist's office. Doctor-patient confidentiality and all that."

"The new doc's still here?"

"Home now; only works in the morning."

"When Cam's settled, meet me there. Bring Wilcox and Ojo."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know."

And it was true. He wanted to make them suffer, make them scream in pain, make them grovel for mercy, but how he would accomplish that, he wasn't sure.

After spending at least ten minutes pacing in the office, he was finally given his opportunity.

"Well, well, well," Ojo mused. "The mighty capo wishes to speak to us."

"Cut the crap," Joar spat. "I know what you're doing to Cameron."

"Nothing you would dis'prove of," Wilcox insisted.

"It was supposed to be a one-time thing." Even as he said it, he realized how wrong it was, how terrible it sounded. "And telling him I _told _you to do it? I'm not like that."

"Really?" Ojo said, mockingly. "You _are _the one who traded his son for power."

And he couldn't counter that, not really, so he hissed, "Neither of you will ever touch him again."

Wilcox chuckled darkly. "It took your boy a week to tell you what was goin' on. Maybe he likes it."

"Shut up," he snarled.

"He's right," Ojo interjected. "You should hear Junior. 'Harder, please. More, please.' He _wants_ it." A lustful smile appeared. "He especially enjoys the biting. Squeals with pleasure every time. Same thing when Wilcox uses his belt on him."

"And he can swallow now," Wilcox added approvingly. "He's gotten so much better since the first time."

They laughed harshly, and Joar clenched his hands into fists until his fingers were numb. He hated them, for what they did to his son, what they made him do. And he was about to attack when Ojo sighed, "It's a shame, though, in a way. There was something so…novel about having him as a virgin."

The words rang furiously in his ears. "You were the first one."

Shrugging, Ojo continued, "There's an indescribable feeling, taking away someone's virginity. You feel so…powerful. Dominant. You make them submit themselves to you completely. Make them do whatever you want." He was thoughtful for a moment. "It's funny—the first time, he was begging me not to do it. Now, he begs me not to stop."

And Joar snapped. An inhuman growl rumbling from his throat, he launched himself at Wilcox. Because Wilcox had the damn collar control and had to be taken out first. Because he needed time to think about what he would do to Ojo.

The guard reached for the control, but it was too late; Joar slammed his head into the corner of the desk. Blood dribbled from the wound, and the man landed with a thud.

Joar cursed himself for being careless—he'd given Wilcox an easy death, too quick. He hadn't suffered, not like he should have. Turning his attention to Ojo, seemingly frozen in terror, Joar figured he'd just have to make up for that.

Grabbing the smaller man by the arm, he threw him to the ground and kicked him in the stomach. A wheezing breath escaped his enemy; the wind had been knocked out of him. Perfect.

Kneeling, he grabbed Ojo roughly by the shoulders and turned him over, onto his stomach. He thought it was so funny raping Cameron, now he'd know what it was like.

The desperate screams fell on deaf ears, white noise to a man craving nothing but revenge. He starting ripping the uniform off, just like they'd done to his son—

No. He would _not _make Ojo a victim. He would _not _make him and Cameron one and the same.

Regaining some sort of control, Joar rolled Ojo back into his original position and stood. With deadly accuracy, he started kicking the man in the crotch, repetitively, ignoring the agony clear on his face, the broken pleas for forgiveness, the chocked apologizes. All Joar saw was his son, covered in bites and whip marks, and that drove each kick to be more forceful than the last. Finally, panting a bit, Joar backed off, leaving Ojo as a whimpering mess on the floor.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Icicle. Please, please, stop."

"Stop?" Joar repeated, approaching. "Did you stop when Cameron asked, when he begged?" He stomped on Ojo's hand, earning a yelp. "Did you?"

"No." It came out as a whine.

He stomped on the hand again. The crunch of breaking bones greeted his ears. It seemed fitting, in a way.

For the next few minutes, the only sound was the shattering of bones as Joar crushed every finger and both arms. Ojo had fallen completely silent.

"You awake?" Joar demanded harshly.

"Yes." The reply was hoarse and barely audible.

"Good. I want you conscious when I kill you."

"Please—"

It was futile. Joar's hands were already around his neck, right above the collar. With a simple, angry twist, a _crack_ filled the air.

Taking a deep breath, Joar calmly walked over the body and to the door. Stepping outside, he told Gates, "It's over."

"They're dead?"

"Yes." He paused. "I guess you have to report this, or something."

"I should." The guard looked him dead in the eyes. "But I'm not. I'm a dad, too. So go be with your son. I'll figure this out."

"Thank you."

And he made his way to the infirmary. He tried to figure out what he would tell Cam. He wondered if it would even make a difference. Their deaths would prevent them from doing it again, but it wouldn't make the pain stop, wouldn't make the memories go away, wouldn't make anything any better.

"How can I help you?" The nurse was young, even younger than Gates. She must have been right out of college.

"I want to see my son."

The smile on her face wavered. "You're Icicle?"

"Yes."

And then the smile was gone completely, replaced with sheer and utter loathing—his reputation preceded him. And he probably should have been mad because it's not like she knew the whole story, not like she had a right to judge. But he wasn't. Because he deserved her contempt, her distaste, and, in a way, he welcomed it.

"Is he alright?"

"We treated him for the... injuries to his back." Her voice was curt, all-business. "We had to remove his proprietary collar because excessive use had left his neck raw. We were going to do a rape kit, but he refused."

And she just looked at him, accusingly, and there was so much passion blazing in her sapphire eyes that he couldn't meet them. "Can I see him?"

"We gave him sleeping medication. You have five minutes with him before he's out, ten max."

Acknowledging this with a bare nod of his head, he walked to where she had gestured. "Cam."

The teen wearily turned to face his father. "Hi."

"You alright?" he asked softly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Okay," he murmured, bringing his knees to his chest. "My back doesn't hurt anymore."

"That's good."

Silence.

"What happened?"

"I dealt with Ojo and Wilcox."

"Did you kill them?"

"Yes."

"You'll get in trouble."

And Joar almost laughed at that because of course his son would be thinking about him. "Don't worry about it."

More silence.

Gathering his courage, Joar said, "Look, Cam, I…I need to say some stuff, okay? And I just need you to listen. I…I could have stopped them, the very first time. I _should_ have stopped them. But I didn't because I thought, if I stopped them, I'd lose whatever power I had here. I was stupid and selfish. I know I'm not good at showing it, but I do care about you. And I shouldn't have let them do that because you really are more important to me than anything else. I'm so sorry, Cam."

Sorry he'd betrayed him. Sorry he'd let him suffer. Sorry he'd become a father when he wasn't worthy of the title of _Dad_ or the unconditional love with which it came.

And Cam, who had every right to hate him, just whispered, "I forgive you."

It seemed impossible, but Joar believed it. He needed to believe it.

"You get out in three months," he said quietly. He swallowed, forced himself to keep going. "I don't want you back."

And those five words were the hardest words to speak because they meant he was letting his son go. Cam was not a villain, was never meant to be one. But Joar had tried, through beatings and degradation, to make him one. To make him tough enough to survive in a world he just wasn't meant to be in. But he could not change his son. So he had to let him go. Because if he did not free him, he'd lose him forever.

"Okay," was the reply, filled with relief and understanding.

Joar placed his hand on his son's shoulder, gave a gentle squeeze. "I should let you rest."

"Stay." Cam stared at him pleadingly. "Please, Dad. Stay."

And he couldn't say no because his son had never before asked him anything. So he obeyed, moving into a nearby chair.

"Thank you," Cam whispered, lying down.

"No problem," he murmured. "Now get some sleep."

"You won't leave?" His voice was slurring a bit, and his eyelids were drooping.

"I won't leave."

As his son drifted off, Joar prayed to a God he long ago dismissed as myth but now needed to be real. He didn't care if he was sent to Hell or not—he regretted nothing but being a bad father—but he needed to know that Cam would be okay. Because he was a good person, despite it all. So he prayed that there was more good than evil on this earth, that Cam would have a chance to prove his worth to the world, that he would be given the love and kindness he needed. And he prayed that there was a Heaven, because he deserved that when he died. He deserved angels and peace, deserved a place far beyond this prison, far beyond this earth.

He deserved salvation.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Please review!


End file.
